Devil Went Down to Georgia
by Iwaveatyou87
Summary: In which Hiruma and The Kid do something that's been a long time coming. Rated M for a reason.


Happy Super Bowl, everyone. In honor of this joyous occasion, I thought that an Eyeshield 21 fic would be wonderfully appropriate to produce, so here it is. I tried really hard to finish it yesterday, of course, but it just didn't happen on account of I was actually watching the game. Go figure. Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Oh, man, do I wish they were mine. But they're not, because if they were, I probably would have already sent Mamori whore-chan off to boarding school and Suzuna would get slapped every time she called Hiruma "You-nii", or called Monta "Mon-mon", or...actually, any time she talked at all, if we're being realistic. Also - seriously, kids, this is rated M for a reason, so be ye warned.

This one is for PhantomsDaughter13 - I didn't tell her I was writing it because I wanted it to be a surprise. I sure hope the surprise is a pleasant one. :D

* * *

It was a good thing his casual attire was so versatile, because the damned shrimps had dragged him into a bar – one of those upscale hoity-toity upper crust ones that only served cocktails and attracted throngs upon throngs of the young and the rich and the beautiful and the ambitious.

Not that he wasn't any of those things, of course. In fact, he was all of those things, and so he fit in beautifully, which was a lot more than he could say for the people he was with. He simply didn't frequent these kinds of establishments on a regular basis, was all.

It had started, as the fucking shrimp had so naïvely put it, "by a stroke of happy coincidence". As in, somehow he and the damn monkey had figured out the next time he'd be in L.A. and coerced him into coming to some ridiculous party while he was there, using blackmail or bribery or something – he couldn't be bothered remember what. Perhaps his methods (which were, admittedly, conniving and underhanded and tended to be on the more illegal side of things) were rubbing off on them.

Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He'd always had a soft spot for the little bastards.

Either way, being the benevolent and generous celebrity that he was, he had decided to grace them with his presence. And, while he was there, consume most of their alcohol. He did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

Which meant, when all was said and done, that three of the world's most promising and talented American football celebrities (along with a hundred and seventeen or so other party-goers, of course, but that was beside the point) would be gathering together in one place for one night. Which meant that this party was _off _the _fucking wall_. Which meant that the damn shrimp and his pet monkey, who had never been very good at parties (why they had decided to throw one in the first place was a mystery to him, but he'd always loved parties, so he hadn't been particularly bothered to investigate), had grabbed his hands and led him out the door and onto the neon streets of nighttime L.A. just as he'd been chatting up this obscenely drunk pair of birds who had seemed genuinely interested in performing all kinds of lewd sexual acts for him for _free_ (not that he was really into that kind of thing, but a picture's worth a thousand words and twice as much money).

And he hadn't done a thing to stop them.

So when they'd taken a sudden turn and stepped through the revolving doors and into the ritzy-ass bar, he took a moment to appreciate the fact that the stooges he'd ended up with were at least wearing dress shirts and oxfords before he straightened his leather jacket and sauntered up to the bar. He vaguely hoped his damn charges wouldn't make fools out of themselves without constant close supervision – but then, they weren't fifteen anymore (hell, they were hardly even shrimps anymore, and playing in the NFL and very well-off, and secretly he couldn't have wished better for either of them), so they would probably be fine.

He ordered a Manhattan and leaned back in his chair, surveying the crowd of thoughtlessly good-looking men and poised, glittering women that lined the walls of the room and loitered strategically at the tables of acquaintances. He could single out a face here and there, someone he'd seen on the news or in the tabloids, and he wondered what exactly he was doing in a place like this at a time like this on a night like this –

His drink was placed in front of him on a black and gold napkin, and he looked up to find several pairs of smoky eyes trailing up and down his body appreciatively from across the room.

Never mind.

He smirked into his drink and resumed his scanning of the room, picking out one or two more faces before spotting the fucking monkey, who was being chatted up by a curvy brunette with glossy lips and a martini in her hand – now _that_ was something he never thought he'd see in a million years – but failing to catch sight of the damn shrimp. He quirked an eyebrow and set down his drink to scan again. Glittery dress, not him…leather jacket, not him either…shock of bright red hair, no…mile-high stilettos, no…cowboy hat, no…

He did a double take. Cowboy hat? Now there was a sight he hadn't seen in who-knows-how-many years. The hat was well-worn and rugged-looking and incredibly conspicuous in upscale downtown L.A., and when he took a closer look, purely for nostalgia's sake, he found himself raising his eyebrow at the dark hair that protruded from under the hat, the sharp chin, the easy smirk that rivaled his own…

Wait.

It couldn't possibly…

Oh, God, it _was_.

Of all the places it could have been to encounter someone from his past, this was by far the last one he'd expected, but there he was, in all of his Western glory – the overall look was considerably more subdued than the ridiculous John Wayne-esque getups he remembered from their schooldays, but the cowboy hat and (he leaned to the left to get a better view…and yes, there they were) the cowboy boots were still there. The hair was just as long, although he was clean-shaven now, and there was still that fantastic easy confidence about him in the way that he lounged in his chair with his hat over his eyes and casually nursed what looked to be a Bulleit Neat.

Well _damn_.

He leaned back and let his teeth show through his smirk, taking another few moments to appreciate the view and the memories that accompanied it, when something moving in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned in his chair to find an attractive blonde who had been sitting in a booth behind him sliding fluidly out of her seat and onto the floor. Her dress shimmered in the light and her neckline was absurdly low and her hemline was alarmingly short and her stilettos were ridiculously high, and she was currently making her way across the bar to –

Oh, no.

Oh,_ no_.

That bitch was fucking dead.

He was across the crowded room and oozing gracefully into the seat beside her target in less than three seconds, still managing to keep hold of his drink, and it was times like these that made him appreciate the easy speed and agility that playing football had graced him with, because that bitch had hardly even registered what happened before he was sending her the deadliest glare in his reserves and practically daring her to take a step closer.

When she abruptly changed direction halfway across the floor, he couldn't help but feel more internally satisfied than was probably appropriate. Or healthy. Or both.

Smirk settling on his face once again, he leaned back and swirled the remnants of his drink around in his glass. "You should probably be thanking me," he commented casually, just loud enough for the damn cowboy to hear. "I just saved you from the talons of that fucking harpy before you even knew she existed."

He watched out of the corner of his eye as a smirk to match his own stretched its way across the portion of the damn cowboy's face that was visible under that damn hat. "My, my. If it isn't Hiruma Youichi. I'd know that voice anywhere."

"Hell yes you would." He knocked back the rest of his drink and set it on the bar. "It's been a long time."

"It has," the other agreed. He tilted his head up so that his whole face was exposed, revealing eyes the glinted sharply in the light and – well, damn, he had almost forgotten about those stupid eyebrows. Those, more than anything else, brought back memories. "What are you doing here? Still playing for the Armadillos?"

His smirk widened. "They made me their star quarterback. They're paying me shitloads of money to run around on a field and toss a football every once in a while. Until they decide to drop me, there's no way in hell I'd leave a deal as sweet as that, fucking eyebrows."

A sharp bark of laughter. "I haven't heard anyone call me that since I was in grade school." His companion was grinning now, sitting up a little straighter to get a fuller view. "It was always the nicknames with you, wasn't it? The nicknames and the mind games and that horrible haircut." Those sharp eyes flicked up briefly, and the grin stretched even wider. "Which you still seem to have kept, after all these years. It's a shame – normally you display better taste than that."

If it had been anyone else, he would have filled them full of lead from his favorite AK-47 without even thinking about it. But then, that had always been one of his favorite things about the damn cowboy – he was one of the only people who made him _think_.

Instead, he chose to widen his smile to the point where every single one of his fangs gleamed in the light. "And _you_ still haven't grown out of that stupid cowboy getup. I'd say we're even."

The face was once more partly obscured by that stupid hat, but the grin was still visible from a mile away.

He let his eyes drift over the crowd during the momentary lull in conversation, catching sight of the damn monkey once again – a few more girls were now vying for his attention, several of them offering him drinks and all of them giggling flirtatiously (the sight made him ridiculously proud and sick to his stomach all at the same time) – and finally spotting the fucking shrimp, sitting in a booth with his back to the wall and looking for all the world like a cornered rabbit as a dark-haired girl with heavy bangs smiled at him coyly and inched a little bit closer every so often.

"My, my…" The damn cowboy had followed his gaze and was shaking his head, grinning a little too nostalgically, but rather than a pathetic little comment about the past or the damn shrimp, what he said next was, "Why don't we go somewhere a little less crowded to catch up?" instead, and that completely threw him for a loop.

But he recovered quickly and gave the damn cowboy a sharp glance, cackling. "You sure move fast, don't you, fucking eyebrows?"

"My place isn't far from here," the voice under the hat added with a calculating smile, as if far too used to his mind games, which, he supposed, was probably true. "A twenty minute walk, maybe. If I walk slow."

"Ah, you're not even going to call me a cab?" he simpered, but he slid off his stool and stuffed a wad of bills under his glass. He was smirking again, too, because _really_.

His companion was already moving towards the door, hands in his pockets and exuding a fantastic easy confidence that garnered several appreciative stares from across the room. He followed him from a distance, grinning self-satisfactorily, and only paused when he caught the damn shrimp's eye to jerk his head in the direction of the damn cowboy and wink. It was worth it, really, to watch the shrimp's expression switch from confusion to realization to, his personal favorite, blatantly scandalized shock as he realized the implications of that wink, and he left the kid with his mouth half-open and eyes as wide as dinner plates as the doggedly persistent girl next to him seized the opportunity and eliminated the space between them completely.

It was lightly raining as he stepped out into the night, small droplets spattering the ground in sporadic showers, and nighttime L.A. glowed even brighter for it as the lights of the city were reflected in puddles and shimmered in the rain-slicked streets. The damn cowboy was standing a few feet from the entrance, just outside the reach of the light that spilled from the doorway and leaning casually against a lamppost. He pulled up his collar and walked to stand beside him. "You had better hope that this rain doesn't ruin my jacket, fucking eyebrows," he said, tone nonchalant, as he watched a couple on the other side of the street walk by under an umbrella.

"We'll walk fast, then," the other said simply, turning and starting down the sidewalk in the same direction that the shrimp's party had been.

He grinned, turning on his heel and falling into step beside him, and they walked in silence for a little over four minutes (he was counting) before the damn cowboy idly commented, "Not too far from here," and he responded with a noncommittal grunt, stepping over a puddle and pulling his collar up even further.

"Not much for conversation, are you?" the other man asked, and he couldn't tell if he was annoyed or if he was teasing, but when he glanced sideways the eyes were covered by the hat.

He decided on the most straightforward answer. "I don't see the point in making useless small talk."

"I thought we were going to be catching up," the damn cowboy said mildly.

"I thought that was just an excuse to get out of the bar," he countered, just as indifferent.

"Fair enough," the other agreed, "although you haven't asked me anything about the past few years yet at all."

He couldn't help it - a wicked grin spread over his face and he chuckled darkly. "You really think I need to _ask_ about what you've been doing for the past few years, Mushanokoji Shien?"

He watched with some satisfaction as the fucking cowboy stiffened at the mention of his real name; for his credit, however, he recovered impressively quickly. "My, my, I'd almost forgotten," he sighed, but the smile in his voice was glaringly obvious. "Your methods of gathering information have always baffled me."

"It pays to know what's going on," he responded, shrugging.

"It can't possibly be legal," the other man commented, as if stating that the sky was blue.

He chose not to respond to that, merely letting the grin on his face grow wider as they rounded a corner and passed a couple of empty restaurants, and they walked the rest of the way as silent as they had began until they reached a large and clearly very expensive apartment complex and the damn cowboy said, "This is it," as if he couldn't tell that he lived here by the way that he waved to the doorman and pressed the button in the elevator for the seventh floor.

They walked along a carpeted hallway for a ways until the damn cowboy stopped in front of one of the doors (he didn't bother to look at the number, because the hallway was dimly lit and really, it wasn't as though he couldn't find out _exactly _which number it was any time he wanted to) and, after a moment of fumbling with a couple of keys, unlocked it.

"Here we are," he said gratuitously, flicking on a couple of lights to reveal a large, open sitting room with a bay window that offered an expansive view of the city. Off to either side he could see a kitchen area and a spacious bedroom, and all three rooms were furnished with dark wood and clean lines and expensive-looking fabrics and nothing even remotely related to cowboys, and for that he was exceedingly grateful.

"Not bad," he commented idly, taking a few steps in and looking around, and he heard the damn cowboy shut the door behind him and hang up his hat. He slid out of his jacket and offered it behind him silently, and after a moment it was taken from him; there was the soft click of clothes hangers against each other, and then another click as what he supposed was a closet door was closed.

The fucking cowboy moved to stand beside him, crossing his arms over his chest. "This will be interesting," he muttered quietly.

He cast him a sharp glance, but the other man was already on the move once more, heading this time towards the kitchen and calling, "Coffee?" back over his shoulder.

He allowed exactly three steps before surging forward to grab the damn cowboy by the collar with both hands and reel him back in, crushing their lips together.

They managed to make it to the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and a flurry of tongues, bumping into several walls along the way and breaking two vases and a lamp, and the fucking cowboy kept biting his ears and sucking at his Adam's apple and somehow his fucking hands were lodged firmly in his hair and he could only counter by shoving his hands up that stupid cowboy shirt and scraping at his nipples with his fingernails because it made the other man hiss and if that wasn't the most fantastic sound he had ever heard in his life -

They managed to make it to the bedroom; they did not, however, manage to make it to the bed, because the damn cowboy's knees gave out and both of them went tumbling to the floor, and once they had reattached their faces, neither of them could quite bring themselves to move anywhere else.

In one sharp, quick movement he'd ripped the whole damn shirt off the damn cowboy, mother-of-pearl buttons flying across the room with a satisfying ripping sound, and he tossed the fabric over his shoulder before taking advantage of this newfound expanse of skin and roaming his hands over it, scraping his nails against it, marking it with lips and teeth and tongue and biting hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to draw blood. The hands in his hair were raking against his scalp, pulling at the strands at the back of his neck, and he brought his mouth back up to the other's as the hands finally migrated south enough to start on his own shirt, slowly pulling it higher and higher up his torso as their tongues wound together in a fight for dominance in that beautiful wet heat and -

"Ouch!" The damn cowboy pulled back suddenly, clapping his hands to his mouth, eyes screwed shut in pain, and he sat back on his haunches and raised an eyebrow. After a moment the eyes opened and he was graced with an interesting expression, a peculiar sort of wounded amusement. "Your sharp fucking teeth nearly sliced my tongue in half, you bastard!"

He couldn't help it - he burst into loud, sharp barks of laughter that were only encouraged by the damn cowboy's now-far-more-wounded-than-amused expression, and when he took his hands from his mouth and came back with blood, he couldn't even breathe anymore.

The dark-haired man narrowed his eyes. "Take your damn shirt off."

He finally gathered himself enough to comply, pulling his shirt over his head and effectively smothering his last few cackles in the fabric. "It's not my fault you cut yourself, fucking eyebrows."

"It_ is_ your fault - your teeth are like fucking razor blades," the other man groused, showing flashes of dark red blood whenever he opened his mouth.

He smothered another round of chuckles at the sight. "Then don't lose your head so quickly next time, and maybe you'll remember to be more careful."

The damn cowboy's response was to yank him back down into another searing kiss, white-hot and urgent, and he could taste the blood in his mouth - the metallic tang mixed with a lingering taste of alcohol and cloves and something that he couldn't quite place and it overpowered his senses and he lapped it up, once coming too close to the actual wound and making the other man flinch. He chuckled into the kiss then, delicately licking along the cut and reveling in the tremors that it sent up the other's spine, before running his tongue along the back of his teeth and biting down on his bottom lip.

"Watch it," the damn cowboy breathed against his lips, one hand back in his hair while the other trailed down his spine. "I'd rather not bleed any more than I already have."

He smirked and bit down again, making the other man frown, before dragging his nails down the damn cowboy's torso. He stopped at the edge of his slacks, lightly running the pads of his fingers over the abdominal muscle there and eliciting exaggerated shivers at the drastic change in sensation, before he began toying with the belt buckle. His fingers pulled along the top edge before diving down further to cup - more belt buckle? What the -?

He broke away from their kiss and frowned down at the damn cowboy's pants, quickly spotting the source of his frustration. "That is the tackiest fucking thing I have ever seen in my entire life," he sneered disapprovingly, watching the huge and ornate silver buckle glint in the dim light as the other shifted his hips impatiently.

"I don't believe anyone asked you," came the response, as the hands in his hair loosened and settled on his shoulders.

"Seriously, why the hell are you wearing this thing?" he muttered, nimble fingers working at unhooking the oversized trinket and failing spectacularly to find the clasp.

The hands moved from his shoulders to the belt buckle, and it was opened in a matter of seconds with a metallic little click . "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"No kidding," he grumbled, before moving to fasten his mouth to the other's collarbone, sucking and biting intermittently and evoking pleasant little groans and sighs whenever he punctuated his ministrations with a lick or two, letting his hands drift back down to their previous spot at the waistband of the damn cowboy's slacks, now devoid of all large silver obstacles, and yanking the belt from his pants with one sharp tug.

He lifted his head and glanced thoughtfully at the belt, a long and worn piece of leather that twisted easily in his hands, but he was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp tug to his hair.

"Don't even think about it," the fucking cowboy told him sternly, but there was that hidden amusement in his voice again.

He shrugged and threw the strip of leather aside without much of a fight, although he couldn't help but smirk and add, "It would have been fun."

"Only if you were the one wearing it," the other countered, and his only option for riposte at that point was to shut the damn cowboy up with his face, which he did, seizing his lips in something rough and heated and fantastic, tasting back into the far corners of his mouth and resuming his task of divesting the other of his clothing. Compared to the belt buckle, the button of his slacks was incredibly easy, even with those fingers skittering down his sides and that mouth leaving marks down his neck, and after he finally managed to remove them from the other man he wasted no time in grinding the heel of his palm against the very obvious bulge between his legs.

The damn cowboy hissed, arching up and tangling his fingers into his hair again. "Finally," he groaned, and just for that he ground his hand against him again, sharper and harder this time, and watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the other man writhed beneath him.

Suddenly he found his world flipped upside down, found himself looking up into the scheming eyes and sly grin of the damn cowboy, and when his equilibrium righted itself he felt dexterous fingers making quick work of his own trousers. He grinned and affixed his mouth to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder above him, running his hands up and down the other's spine and allowing the rest of his clothing to be removed before reversing their positions once more. He raised his eyebrow.

The fucking cowboy had the gall to shrug and attempt to look unassuming. "It was worth a try."

That is, until he removed his boxers and wrapped one long hand around the other man's arousal, giving it a couple of quick strokes with easy flicks of his wrist. Then that bullshit unassuming look was _gone_.

He grinned and changed his pace, his strokes steadying out to become slower and longer and punctuated by quick swipes with his thumb to the slit, and he watched the expression on the damn cowboy's face flicker for a moment before he spoke up. "Lubrication?"

"I -" The hands in his hair tightened as the other man cut himself off. "I wasn't exactly planning for this."

His grin changed to a smirk, and he lazily held out a couple of fingers. "Then suck."

Eyes opened to bore holes into his own, smoldering and dilated and cloudy with lust, but the damn cowboy opened his mouth and took in his fingers all the same, tongue swirling around them with what he could tell was a careful hesitation to avoid hitting the cut that was still fresh on his tongue. He waited for a minute or two, never breaking the rhythm of his strokes, before pulling his fingers out with a wet-sounding pop and almost immediately pushing one of them into the fucking cowboy with a slow and steady precision that made the other man arch his back and fix him with an expression that could only be described as impressed.

"You're certainly no novice, are you?" the damn cowboy panted, syllables slightly slurred together as a second finger was added almost as easily.

"Neither are you," he mused interestedly, only waiting a moment before adding a third and crooking all three of them at an angle that drew a long low groan from the other man. He smirked, twisting his fingers expertly and driving them even deeper, and the fucking cowboy threw his head back and fisted his hands in the blond hair he still had a hold of.

He pulled his fingers out and glanced up, and after a nod of approval he positioned himself at the other man's entrance before pushing in with the same sort of slow certainty that he'd used before, the hands in his hair fisting tighter and tighter until he was buried to the hilt and panting against the damn cowboy. Heat licked its way up his spine, beautiful wonderful raw heat, and it was all he could do to wait for a moment as the man beneath him clenched his teeth together and adjusted.

"Really," the fucking cowboy ground out, "you could have done something to lubricate a little further."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Next time," he panted, "plan ahead."

The self-restraint he'd been holding on to crumbled with that last statement and he pulled back and snapped his hips, and the ragged groan that tore from the throat of the damn cowboy was all the encouragement he needed. He thrust in again, nails raking down the other man's back as the hands in his hair began threading through it fervently. They quickly established a rhythm, one setting it and the other quickly picking it up, and as they rocked against each other he watched the heat build up in the eyes of the other man in time to the heat building up in and around him and up his spine and down through the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers, and finally he adjusted the angle of his hips and drove downward hard, drawing a strangled cry from the damn cowboy as his orgasm ripped through his body and triggered the other's, and he saw stars and slumped forward and couldn't find it in him to move for a very long time.

Finally, however, the damn cowboy pushed him off and he rolled over onto the floor next to him, his smirk sated and self-satisfied.

"Do you know, I might need stitches for what you did to my tongue," the other man commented mildly.

"Yeah? I'm going to have fucking bald spots from where you fucking pulled my hair out, fucking eyebrows," he countered, tone just as bland.

"Next time you're in L.A.," the other man said, would-be-conversational tone marred by repressed laughter, "we can just skip the pretenses altogether."

"Next time I'm in L.A.," he countered artfully, "we're using that belt."

* * *

As soon as Kid said "Every time I think about him, it sends chills down my spine," in reference to Hiruma, my fangirl flipped out and zoomed into overdrive. The result is not only my first Eyeshield 21 fic, but also my first M-rated fic with excessive smut and cursing and whatnot. I feel so..._impure_. It's a pretty big milestone. I bought a commemorative cake in honor of the occasion.

It's too bad I can't write anything steamy and not make it completely ridiculous, though - like Kid wearing one of those huge rodeo buckles, or slicing his tongue open on Hiruma's teeth. That would actually be my biggest fear, if I were in Kid's situation - that I would somehow end up slicing my tongue in half on Hiruma's sharp fucking teeth if I got too careless...but I digress.

Also - I know, I know, Hiruma calls him "fucking eyebrows", not "damn cowboy", which is how I had him refer to Kid in his mind and once in the dialogue, but honestly, I felt a little ridiculous typing out "fucking eyebrows" every time I wanted to mention him. Plus, I felt like "damn cowboy" was a suitable enough substitute. And I didn't even notice his eyebrows until Hiruma started referring to them. So.

It should probably be illegal for me to write these things...


End file.
